desperate fool
by Motionisrelative
Summary: After the game, Karkat and Dirk negotiate on how the new world should be run. Their methods are a little unorthodox. D/s relationship. M/M. Smut.


Happy birthday, Force!

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You've got to hand it to her, Jane Crocker knows what to do with her team.

Letting Dirk be the one to treat with you, as the leader of the Alternian session, was, objectively, brilliant. He knows more about trolls-though he also distrusts them more-and it fills his need to have control over absolutely everything. And she knows that you and Dirk can't stand each other, which means it's an opportunity for the two of you to find ways to compromise. It's a perfect little political maneuver all rolled up into what feels like twenty pounds of paper in your arms and a knock on the Strider hive door.

Jane Crocker, under that sweet-as-her-cookies act, is a ruthless, merciless bitch.

You swing open the hive door and glare.

"All right, let's get this gangrenous boil of a task popped so we can go our separate ways and interact as little as possible."

Dirk turns to you. "Pretty sure gangrene and boils are mutually exclusive." God damn it, it's like he's smirking with his voice. You want to punch him.

You take a deep breath. "That's fucking fascinating. Please, continue to regale me with the finer points of medivisceration. I'm really looking forward to wasting the whole grubshitting day in your noxious presence!"

He does what you have come to recognize as the Strider laugh, a sharp little bark of derision, like he's so contemptuous he's almost-but-not-quite amused. Seriously, you could happily rip his face off. Your hands are curling into fists, your claws sinking into your palms. "Bet you tell that to all the boys," he says, totally deadpan.

You half-growl, half-sigh, and slam the papers on the table. "Okay, whatever. Let's just get this done."

He shrugs and sits down like he really doesn't care, shuffling through the folders and reading the headings. "GDP, homeland security, federal court, integration..."

"Can't you read silently? Do you have to sound out the words or something?" you say through gritted teeth. "Is it really that hard to cudgel your weakly sputtering synapses into something resembling working order?"

He ignores you completely, taking the last folder and slapping it on the table. "Slavery."

You pause, giving him a long look, all the thoughts flying out of your thinkpan. "Yeah," you say slowly.

He taps his fingers on the edge of the folder. "So that's an issue for you guys, huh?"

If you had a choice, it wouldn't be, but Meenah got most of the highbloods behind her on it, and even you have to admit it's an ancient staple of Alternian culture. It's got evolution behind it, for fuck's sake, much to your undying rage.

Dirk looks at you, and you can_ feel_ that behind his shades, he's meeting your eyes. "Seems like a weird thing for _you_ to want to bring up."

The bald implication that according to your people, according to the treaties you yourself brought to this meeting, you should be a slave, makes your head spin with fury for a second. "Fuck you," you hiss, and it's in the back reaches of your throat, guttural and dark and vicious. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

He leans back in his chair, and you know he's inspecting you. He talks like a Strider and sits like a highblood and he's watching you like he's counting your teeth. You storm towards him and have to stop yourself just short of throwing him to the floor, smashing his shades, breaking him and making him see what you're capable of. "Actually, I think I'm pretty well-informed on the subject. I know my history."

"Fuck history. This is now. I'm the leader of my session, unlike you, and if anyone should be worried about slavery it's you. I'm your god. I could make you scream for me. I could fucking ruin you."

"If you're that black for me," and you can hear the hint of a smile, "you should have just said so."

You just stare at him for a second, your mouth slightly open. The other humans don't notice, or maybe don't care, but Dirk knows. He knows exactly what you were doing, he saw it for blatant caliginous posturing, he knows that you've been openly flirting with him since you got here, and most importantly he knows that you couldn't control yourself. "Shut up!" you snarl.

He stands, and you have to force yourself to hold your ground. He's taller than you, and he has an air of power that you're not used to, that makes your instincts curl up like you're being faced with a highblood adult and your choices are get on the floor or die. "I don't take orders from lowblood mutants," he says coolly.

It's perfectly calibrated to piss you off, and even though you dimly understand that, it works. "You do if one of the session leaders tells you to." The last word builds into a click-click-clicking in your throat, thick and knife-sharp. You bite your lip hard to stifle it and hope he doesn't recognize it as a mating sound. When you pull back your teeth, you taste blood.

Dirk's watching you again. "God, you look good when you bleed," he said, and for the first time you hear inflection, a husky undertone to it. You can practically hear your bloodpusher.

"Try and make me then, asshole."

He steps towards you, still staring you down, and then, so suddenly you don't realize it until it's too late, you feel his hand crack against your face. Your head snaps to the side, and the pain comes a moment later, blooming in your cheek as heat builds in your veins. "You'll speak to your betters with more respect."

It's so nakedly pitch you're almost thrown. "Betters?" You slash at him with your claws, and he catches your wrists, holding you there while you struggle. You have no doubt it will bruise. "Did you just refer to yourself as my fucking better? In what kind of shitdribbling oozeleaking pit of a world-"

He slams you down on the table, and you're so close you can see his eyes through his shades. What you see there leaves you speechless for a second. He wants you, you can tell, and as you're kicking, squirming wildly as you try to flip him so you can show him just how much of an inferior he is to you, he's breathing harder and you can feel his bulge hard against your leg.

You're suddenly uncomfortably aware that yours is nearly half unsheathed and thrashing in your jeans, and the moment you start thinking about your nook you stop moving for a moment. You do your best to shut yourself up, but you keen. Immediately, you know that was a mistake.

Dirk goes still. "Enjoying yourself, huh? You like being put in your place?" There's hunger in his face. You try not to pay attention to the way it makes your nook drip.

"Shut up!" you say again, though it's more of a breathy shriek than a snarl.

He smiles crookedly. "And here I was thinking you were learning respect." He leans down very close, and you can feel his tongue against the cut on your lip when he speaks. "Do you need me to teach you a lesson?"

"I don't need anything from you," you spit, which is obviously not true since you're trying to grind surreptitiously against his leg and you're panting and you might actually soak through your jeans, but there's no way you're letting him know that.

You expect some kind of retaliation for that, but not what happens. He bites you, right where your lip is split, and his teeth are blunt but the skin is already torn and you feel it tear and oh, God, he's licking at the blood. A wild, strangled moan escapes you.

"Yes, you do," he tells you against your mouth, and the presumptuous way he says it makes you so angry that, consequences be damned, you bite him back, your sharp teeth puncturing the skin easily. He reels back, and you're thrilled you managed to surprise him until he puts one hand on your throat. He doesn't push, he doesn't close his hand around it, but he could if he wanted to and the knowledge awakens centuries of submission and obedience in your blood. Of slavery. And he knows that, damn it. He's smiling, and you don't think you've ever seen a Strider smile except like this, smug and triumphant. "You need a master."

You're spluttering, about to say something sarcastic, when his hand slides up into your hair and oh no, he's brushing the horn. It feels so good you whimper, soft and full of need, and you're trying to stop yourself but now he's holding it firmly around the base one hand, gripping it to tell you that he's in charge. You're his property-no you're not, you're your own troll but-the hand on your throat promises punishment and the hand on your horn promises rewards and you don't mean to but you arch up and no, you cannot be _presenting_ to him, but you are.

He stands up, pressing a little harder against your horn and neck as he does, and you look up at him, alarmed. He runs his thumb up and down your horn, and you shudder. "On your knees," he orders.

You recover yourself a little. "I'm not going to-"

He digs his fingers into your throat. "On. Your. Knees."

You open your mouth, then see his expression and close it again. Slowly, you stand and let him guide you down, dropping to the floor with your legs folded under you.

"Good boy," he says, and there's condescension in his voice that makes the small part of you that's not overcome by your instincts want to punch him, but the thing that makes it worse is that the rest of you is overcome with pleasure at having pleased him. Trying to maintain a scrap of dignity, you bare your teeth.

He pulls away from your horn and slaps you again, right across the mouth, and you gasp in pain. "And you were doing so well," he says, mock-rueful, then starts to move away. "Stay there."

"You going to make me?" you manage to say.

He raises one eyebrow. "You'll do as you're told. Because if you're not right there kneeling for me when I get back-and I'll know if you move a muscle-you're going to regret it."

You glare at the floor and listen as his footsteps recede.

Now that you're alone and left to think about what you've been doing-what he's been doing to you-you can't believe yourself, and you know you should be standing up and readying yourself for battle but you just can't. It's not even because you're scared of what he would do to you. It's as though he's locked you into obedience, and your whole bulge is unsheathed now, your pants uncomfortably tight around it, but you can't even bring yourself to do more than shift around on your legs to try and relieve the ache. You're waiting for his permission, and you hate yourself almost as much as him for a moment.

It seems like a long time before he comes back. It seems like torture. You're pretty sure he made you wait on purpose, and you glare at him with as much acid as you can muster.

He gives you a brief nod of approval before setting something down, behind you so you can't see it, and fondling your horns, gripping both bases briefly. You try not to melt. "Good job," he says. "Finally learning, are we?"

You can't even muster a "fuck you." You look around as much as you dare, trying to figure out what it was that he brought with him. You're pretty sure you know what it is.

"Stand and strip," he says, casual like he knows you're going to do it. Which you are not. Yes, maybe he's got you on your knees and all your instincts prostrated on the floor before him at his mercy, but you're still Karkat Vantas and you've got some self respect.

And if he sees your bulge, all bright and mutant candy-red, you might not be able to stop yourself from bending to Dirk's will. You can't help it. It's in your blood, and that expression is so perfectly, disgustingly apt that you growl a little.

He looks unimpressed by your resistance. "Defiance isn't going to get you anywhere," he informs you. He takes your chin and tips your head up. "When I give you an order, I expect it to be followed. Promptly. Is that understood?"

Your mouth twists. You say nothing.

He walks behind you, bending to pick something up. "And when I ask you a question, I expect it to be answered."

You stay silent, throwing surreptitious looks behind you to see what he's doing. You don't have to wait long. He comes up behind you and you hear a ripping along the back, feel the material of your shirt tear, abrasion against your skin as he pulls it roughly off you.

"If you think you can-" you start, but he brings his hand around to cover your mouth. It's heavy and warm and so human. You try to pretend to yourself that it does nothing to you, that your hips aren't twitching under you and your hands are spasming with anger and not arousal at all.

"I'd shut up if I were you," he purrs.

You know you're in enough trouble already. You don't care. You reach up and swipe your claws against the back of his hand, leaving a trail of scratches. His sharp intake of breath is all the affirmation you need. You smile nastily, sharp teeth behind black lips.

You're waiting for another slap, a threat, something, but he just moves away from you again. He stays there longer this time, turned so you can't see what he's doing, and you begin to get jumpy. Finally, you can't take it anymore.

"What are you doing?" you demand, but he doesn't react, doesn't give a sign that he even heard you. Trepidation builds through your body.

When he speaks again, it's a relief. "Turn back around. Same position as before."

You consider arguing, but you can't deal with any more of the anticipatory silence. You turn, tapping your fingers nervously against your leg.

You don't even hear him come up behind you. You hear the crack and for a moment you don't know what happened and then oh_ shit_, oh fuck that's a fucking _whip_, and what kind of sick fuck is he that he just has that lying around? He hits you again and you cry out, feeling it even more now that you're prepared for it. The third time there's a little sob that catches in your shriek. He puts it down-still behind you so you don't know exactly where it is-and rubs one of your horns, weirdly sweet. "You ready to obey me now?"

You don't trust yourself to speak. You give one brief nod, and he gestures for you to stand.

"You know what to do."

You look back down at the floor and slowly fumble with the buttons on your pants, pulling them down with your boxers and sliding them over your hips. Your entire body is hot with shame, and the welts on your back burn. You pick up your pants and fold them up, and you take longer than is really necessary to avoid looking at Dirk as long as possible. When you can look back up again, you know he's looking at your bulge from behind his shades. Now that it's free, it's squirming to find friction, flushed and dripping. A soft, embarrassed whine escapes you. You don't think you've ever felt so vulnerable.

"Back on your knees." You can hear the satisfaction in his voice. "Arms behind your back, wrists together." You hesitate, and for a beat the two of you just look at each other. He's staring you right in the eyes. "Now."  
His voice is layered with authority and before you can stop yourself your hands are twisting behind your back, and yes, he steps behind you and you feel cold against your wrists and hear a clink and you were right before. When you try to pull your hands apart experimentally, you feel the links go taut. The cuffs don't allow you more than an inch of movement.

"Bastard," you say under your breath. It's louder than you realized, and you flinch.

He stands directly above you, staring straight down. "You want me to get the whip again?"

"No!" you say quickly, and curse yourself for how quickly you give in.

Dirk is opening his own pants, undoing the button and unzipping them, and he pulls them down just far enough that you can see his strange, rigid human bulge. "Then give me a proper apology."

You choke down your humiliation and open your mouth, but he grabs your hair and forces your head back up. "I didn't hear you ask permission," he says.

You grit your teeth. "Can I..." You can't get the sentence out. He looks at you expectantly, and you clear your throat. "Let me apologize."

"Let me apologize, what?"

Your eyes narrow. "Let me apologize...please."

He's not letting up. "Please, what?"

"Please-" You can't do this, you can't. The worst part is that you know you will. "Please, sir."

His hand slides to your horn as your mouth closes over the head. "Good boy," he says, and it's just a little breathy, his composure ever so slightly cracked. Encouraged, you press your mouth up further and revel in the warmth that sinks over you at the touch on your horn and it's only then you realize that he never even warned you not to bite him. He knows you won't. He knows you're past the point of even trying to prove him wrong. You hiss very lightly into him, but it tapers into something closer to a purr when he takes your other horn.

Hands on either horn, he pulls, using them as leverage, and you make a muffled sound as he forces himself further into your mouth. You can't take much more without gagging, and you're certain he's aware of that, that he's keeping you there at your very limit as a reminder of what he can do to you if he wants. With your arms bound, he's the one keeping you balanced. You suck in hard, your eyes fluttering closed as he circles the bases of your horns, and you find yourself thinking unprompted that he owns you, that you're his, and as much as you try and shove the thought out of your mind it won't go. He grips harder, possessive, on hand in your hair now, and your head bobs, up and down the unfamiliar stiff, fleshy length. You should not be allowing this. He's treating you like a slave, like chattel, like a lowblood, and you're letting him do it, and your bulge is writhing and your nook is dripping and you can never face anyone again, ever.  
That just makes you moan louder.

He likes that. He shoves himself in further, and your throat spasms around him, and you gasp, your breath heaving a little when he pulls back out. His hips jerk a little, and he does it again. You're gagging now and even so you don't pull away. You wonder if he's getting close, and you shudder at the idea that he might use your mouth as a pail, that there's not a bucket in sight and you doubt very much that it will occur to him.

He uses your horns to drag your mouth off of him, and he's moving short and sharp. You're drooling, and it makes you feel so reduced.

"What do you say?" he says, and you can hear an almost-tremor.

"Thank you...sir..." You're no better, your voice fluctuates and you've started to drip onto the floor and you're so humiliated you can't even look up.

"You need it too." It's not a question. You nod frantically. You can't even bring yourself to be coy. "Then beg."

Fine. If that's what it takes, you'll do it. "Please, sir..."

"What do you want?"

Jesus fuck, he's difficult. "Please, sir, pail me!" you nearly scream, and it's like a dam breaks in you. "Please, sir, I need it, please..." and he lets out a sound that's half-moan and half-laugh and throws you down to the floor so you're on your back, pausing only to kick off his pants and throw them to the side. He slides a finger into you and his eyebrows raise.

"God, you're wet," he says. You'd almost call it reverent.

"Yes, sir," you mumble, almost incoherent. He looks at you. For the first time it looks like he's asking you for permission instead of the other way around. "Please!" Your voice comes out strangled, but you can see relief on his face and it's worth it.

He slides into you slowly, and you groan, tensing against the cuffs, trying to get him to go in faster, further, more. He's setting the pace and it's driving you crazy but you can't deny if he went any faster you'd be undone right now, completely unraveled. Your hips buck against him, and when he finally plunges all the way into you you feel it like fullness, like burning, and you're on fire and you don't want it to stop, ever.

He's grunting above you, and you think he might be just as lost as you are, even though you're the one who's a dripping, pleading wreck, but he's starting to jerk, faster, twitching against you, starting to still, he's going to use you as a pail and you should stop him right now but here you are bound under him and you couldn't if you tried-

You feel him let loose inside you, as warm as you are, and heat rushes to your face, and then his fingers close around your bulge and you're done. You think you scream. You see nothing but stars and you're shaking, and he's clutching you and stroking your hair like a moirail as you shudder your way to release. You have never, ever felt like this before.

Your head feels heavy. You curl up and he closes his arms around you. They're just like his hands, strong and warm and strange, but they smell like him, like salt and human and motor oil and Dirk, and you press a kiss to his lips before you can change your mind. He returns it, slow and gentle, and you sigh softly into him, limp and content. There's genetic material all over both of you but you can't find it in yourself to care enough to clean it up.

"Get a pillow," he tells you as you slump down on his shoulder.

"You geddi'," you slur, and he laughs, his hand in your hair, possessive but not painful.

"You stubborn little shit," he says, but it's fond, redder than you'd expect. You shrug. He's not wrong. "Tired you out, huh?" he asks.

He's looking at you and you realize with a jolt that it's searching, that he needs your approval as much as you need his, that his eyes are just barely widened, the tiniest of furrows in his brow.

You let him wait for a second, then turn to him, letting him see your half-lidded eyes, your blown-out pupils, your parted lips dripping bright blood. You know what a wreck you look, and you can guess what it will do to him. He can't hold back his gasp. You feel absurdly proud of yourself.

"Yeah," you say, curling up a little closer. "Yes...sir."

You look up in time to see his eyes widen, and you smile, wide and satisfied. You've got tricks of your own, and it's so much fun to watch that careful facade of his crack.

"Good boy," he says, his voice just a little unsteady, and you roll over and look up at him.

"I wan' nine percent of national welfare tax t'go to lowblood advancemen'," you tell him, as clearly as you can through the haze of warm endorphins, the post-climax looseness of your body.

He grins, and you know it's only for you, that he'd never do that for anyone else. "I think we can work something out."

You've got to hand it to her. Jane Crocker knows what to do with her team.


End file.
